Sweet Romance11 min read
He Shines Hotter Than the Noon Sun
ButterPicks14 views
I have been accused by my half-sister again.
"Lucia, you need to stay away from him," Claudia Clarke had told our father as if she owned the room.
I almost laughed. I could have let it go.
Then I looked at Calvin Clemons's face, the way his mouth curled when he smiled, and I decided letting it go was a waste. If someone wanted to call me a homewrecker, fine. I could play the part and win.
My name is Lucia Charles. I am Calvin's executive secretary.
My family is a mess. After my parents divorced, I left with my mother, Monica Powell. My father, Marcel Scholz, remarried Estefania Volkov, a polished woman who wore false sympathy like a perfume. She had Claudia. From the start they used me as a tool to hurt my mother. Claudia learned to cry on cue. She learned to twist the truth. I learned to survive.
"She cut my doll," Claudia told my father when we were children. "Lucia did it."
"You stole my money," she said in college. "Lucia took it."
Every time she turned on the tears, the world bowed. I got the scolding, the blame, the empty promises. My father stopped sending me money. My mother's health weakened. I stopped fighting; I learned to be quiet and to count the days until I could buy my own little house and bring my mother to live with me.
That morning at the boardroom, a long meeting finally finished. People streamed out. Calvin stayed behind, alone against the leather and glass.
"Anything I need to do?" I asked.
He rubbed his temple and looked tired, but then his face changed. "What kind of gift do girls like?" he asked, surprising me.
"Flowers, a bag, a pretty dress, a small special thing," I said. I had never talked about this with him; we barely spoke about anything but business.
He smiled. It was a rare curl of his mouth that I had not seen often. He looked like sunlight on something sharp. I felt a ridiculous warmth.
"Pick something you like," he said, standing up, calm and deliberate. "Get it to my office before you leave."
He exited like it was nothing. I left the meeting thinking how strange it was that he would trust my taste. I also thought of Claudia's ugly accusation. If everyone believed Claudia, why not make the rumor true and let it help me? If I must be the scandal, I should be the scandal who wins.
Claudia waited for me in the corridor like a storm.
"Stay away from him!" she hissed. "You know how I feel about him."
"Sorry, I can't," I said with a shrug. "I'm his secretary. I work with him."
"You don't work with him. You flirt with him. Give him back to me," she cried out. Her face was red and dramatic; the office watched.
"Prove he's yours," I told her. "Show a ring. Show a promise. Show anything."
She froze. I smiled small and left. The office laughed. For the first time in a long time, I felt lighter.
That night my father called. "Come home for dinner," his voice barked.
I went because I didn't want more trouble. I walked into the house and saw Calvin sitting at our table. There were warm plates and Claudia hugging a small box. She ran up to me with a proud laugh.
"Lucia, look! Isn't this beautiful? He gave it to me," she said, thrusting the gift like a trophy.
I looked at the little box. It was, absurdly, the perfume sample I had chosen in a mall earlier, the tea-scented one. The same fragrance I thought inexpensive and nice. I had chosen it for someone I would never meet.
Calvin looked at me. He smiled in that half-mocking way that made me blush.
"You like it?" Claudia asked, wide-eyed.
"Very much," I said. It was true. I had liked it the moment I picked it. The house buzzed with forced warmth. My father praised Claudia. My stepmother's eyes glinted. They thought they were winning again.
When dinner wound down, Claudia cried for attention, and my father raged at me. "You go out at night, you make trouble. You don't deserve to be in this family," he snapped.
I put my foot against Calvin's ankle under the table. He didn't move.
"Claudia, stop," Calvin said plainly, his voice cool.
"That's my sister," Claudia whined. "You're her—"
"Lucia is an employee here," he cut in. "She has work to do. Leave the office for the people who work."
The words landed like a stone. Claudia's face drained. She had practiced crying and accusation for years, and suddenly she had no script. I smiled inwardly.
Outside later, in the car, I leaned toward Calvin on whim and touched his face. He was calm and steady, not startled. I pressed my lips to his. It was clumsy and foolish but he did not push me away. He took over and taught me what a real kiss felt like, deep and confident.
"I didn't expect you to be so bold," he said when we were done.
"I hardly expected myself," I admitted.
From that day, the rumors grew louder. At work people whispered in the restrooms, at the cafeteria, at the copy machine. Some were cruel. Some were curious. I stopped deleting Claudia's messages and put my energy into something else: my plan.
Two weeks later, my mother was attacked in front of her small store. Estefania and Claudia had gathered a crowd to humiliate her. People pointed. Voices raised. My mother fainted. I called 911 and I fought the men who blocked me from reaching her. The security guards separated us. My father arrived late and cold. The crowd watched it all on their phones.
The next scene is the one I had waited for.
Calvin called me right away. He came to the hospital. He sat with me in the sterile room while my mother recovered slowly. He brought food, fed me, and told me simply, "Lucia, if you want, I will court you properly. I want to be honest with your mother."
"You're serious?" I asked, my voice small.
"Yes." He looked at my mother with a dignity I had not seen often. He spoke to her frankly, respectful and straightforward. "I want to court Lucia with marriage in mind."
My mother smiled with wet eyes and nodded. For the first time in many nights, I slept.
Then came the meeting—the big public one.
They scheduled a board meeting to discuss a parcel of land in the south. Both our family and Calvin's company were present. Executives, lawyers, the board—there were thirty people packed into the room. Marcel and Estefania sat with Claudia at his side, the same smug look. Marcel cleared his throat and started the usual negotiation. Then Calvin did something nobody expected.
"Before we proceed," Calvin said, raising his hand, "I have a personal announcement."
Everybody shifted. "About?" Marcel snapped.
Calvin looked at me. "Lucia and I intend to be married." His voice was steady. "And the south plot I'm asking to buy will be transferred to Lucia's name the day we sign the contract."
Silence. Marcel's face changed color. Estefania's painted smile fell away. Claudia blinked as if a real thing had knocked her.
"You can't do that," Marcel blurted. "This is business."
"This is also about fairness," Calvin said. "And clarity. Lucia's mother has been damaged by deceit in family matters. That parcel will belong to Lucia."
I felt something inside me uncoil. But the real spectacle was only starting. My HR contact pushed open the door and stepped in. Behind her came my mother, Monica Powell, and a woman waving a thick folder.
"What's going on?" Estefania demanded, voice shrill.
"My lawyer and I have something to show," my mother said calmly. "These papers are the old promise my husband made when I was pregnant with Lucia. They prove the land was spoken for Lucia. Mr. Marcel, you signed an agreement that you would hold it for her. You tried to take it back. We have the documents and witnesses."
The room's temperature dropped. Heads turned. Phones came out. People leaned forward like birds.
"That's not true," Marcel said at first, then laughed too loudly. "Those papers are—"
"They are legal," Monica said. "And your new wife, Estefania, used lies and tricks to replace the record and spread false claims. We have the original deposit slip, the signatures, and a notary."
"You're lying," Estefania spat, losing control.
"Stop!" I stepped forward. "You humiliated my mother in front of the store. You pushed her till she fainted. You called her names." I kept my voice low but steady. "You made a show. Now the facts are here."
Phones were out. Cameras flashed. The board members exchanged stunned looks. Someone in the back whispered, "This is going to go online in minutes."
Marcel's pride shifted into panic. "You can't... you will ruin me in front of the board," he said, voice cracking.
"I already have documents," my mother said, handing a page to the chairman. "Mr. Marcel, will you sign and acknowledge this publicly?"
Marcel's face went through stages—shock, denial, bluster, then the slow gray of someone realizing he had been caught. He turned to Estefania, who was now pale with rage and fear. "Estefania, speak up."
She took a breath, and for the first time her mask slipped. Her eyes were frantic. "They're forgeries," she cried. "They are lies!"
A murmur rose. "Prove it," the chairman said. "Estefania, step forward. Present your evidence."
She had none. The room pressed in. The legal team on our side produced a notarized file and a bank slip with Marcel's name and a witness signature. The chairman read a clause out loud: "Transfer to Lucia Charles upon reaching twenty-five."
Claudia's face went pale. "This is impossible," she stammered. A woman across the table snapped a photo. A man in a suit whispered into his phone. "Are they serious?" he murmured.
Estefania began to cry—not the practiced steady tears she used before, but raw, sudden sobs. "You can't—" she gasped. "You can't turn me into a criminal!"
The board members were not amused. One by one, people who had smiled at our family began to look away, then to step back. The chairman spoke quietly. "Mr. Marcel, Estefania, this behavior and these allegations will be investigated. The company's board will not tolerate fraud."
"Don't you dare!" Marcel shouted. Then his voice broke. "You can't take everything away!"
People in the room were recording. A junior director stuck his phone in the air and pushed "live." The image and the sound jumped to feeds in seconds. Outside the building, onlookers pulled up the stream and gathered in groups. The humiliation multiplied beyond the room.
Estefania's reaction changed fast. At first she tried to smear others and cry. Then she realized the room was against her. She tried to plead with people at the table. "Please, please," she begged, voice higher. "You don't understand. It was only an arrangement—"
"An arrangement that relied on lies," somebody said coldly.
She crouched in her seat like a trapped bird. Tears spilled, mascara ran down her cheeks, and she started to clap her palms together as if begging for mercy. "Please, I can fix it. I can pay. I'll make amends!"
Around us, reactions changed from curiosity to disgust to pity, to the gleeful hunger for gossip many people had. Someone clapped once, then the sound was staccato, and then someone else actually laughed. A woman I worked with said quietly, "Good. They finally get it."
Claudia's mouth opened and closed. She tried to speak but no words formed that could level the damage. Her practiced cruelty had no audience now. People who had formerly followed her performance now shifted their phones to record her silence. She fumbled for the box she had been holding and dropped it. The box spilled onto the polished table, and the perfume sample rolled like a small coin.
Marcel stood up, face beet-red, and then sagged back into his chair as if the strength had traveled out of him. "You can't... my reputation—"
"Your deeds speak louder than your reputation," the chairman said. "We will proceed as the law requires."
Estefania stood, tottering, and grabbed Marcel's arm. Her pleading became more desperate. "Please, they'll lose everything! Think of the family!"
"Do you think I don't know?" Marcel, who had spent his life covering shame with deals, now looked as if life had opened a door and he had stepped into bright air he could not stand. He turned to the door, then back to me. For a tiny second I saw shame, then something like regret.
Claudia tried to storm out, but even the hallway cameras were on her. Outside, neighbors watched the live feed and whispered. Someone from a local paper arrived within the hour, asking questions. Social feeds erupted. People sent messages: "Did you see? The stepmother exposed! The sister..." It was everywhere.
Later that afternoon, Estefania posted a desperate message on her social account, then deleted it. Marcel tried to call several board members, but the lines went unanswered. Evidence kept coming. The legal department confirmed they would freeze any transfers pending investigation. The chairman made a firm statement that the company would cooperate fully and that any attempt to alter records would be punished.
In the weeks after, the punishment shifted. There was the legal side—investigations, civil suits, the slow and crushing work of law. There was also the social side: invitations stopped coming, business partners called seeking distance, social pages unfollowed and reshared the initial footage with commentary. Estefania attempted to give interviews. She was rebuked. Claudia tried to explain it away as a "family fight" and found no sympathetic ears.
At a neighborhood market days later, a woman who had once greeted Estefania warmly turned her back. A man in a cafe I used to pass by shouted, "You lost your class, Estefania!" Her phone, once full of polite messages, collected fruitless apologies. The humiliation had texture: a long list of small insults and rejections that pile up and become a wall.
When the stepmother finally came to our small rented apartment building, she stood at the gate and watched me carry groceries. She called my name, voice shaky. "Lucia, please—"
I did not turn. I kept walking. She followed, crying openly; people's heads turned to stare. I stopped at the lobby, put the bags down, and looked back. "My mother is safe," I said. "The rest is between you and the law."
She dropped to her knees, hands clutched together, sobbing real tears now. People took videos. Some shook their heads; others looked away. That was the public ending for them—a mixture of legal consequence and social exile. In the end, it was not a crowd of vandals but a quiet withdrawal of respect that hurt most.
After the storm, life changed. The land transfer was confirmed in principle; the legal teams finalized the paperwork. Calvin's father, Kenneth Andersson, came and shook my mother's hand, offering calm support and a rare smile. My mother reclaimed what was hers. Marcel faced a formal investigation. Estefania and Claudia needed to explain their actions to people who mattered. They lost terraces of privilege they'd thought permanent.
Calvin stayed close. He kept small acts that made me softer.
"You're shaking," he said once as we walked out of the rain. He took off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders.
"Thank you," I said, fingers brushing his.
He squeezed my hand. "You surprised me. You spoke clearly, fiercely. I liked that."
"You're the one who picked a fight with my father in the boardroom," I said.
"I call it righting a wrong," he replied. He looked at me with that private smile. "Also, you pick very good perfume."
There were many such small scenes that made my heart race.
"Why did you put my name on the contract?" I asked him later, alone in his office.
"Because I meant it," he said simply. He leaned close and murmured, "I don't throw words away."
"Show me," I teased. "Prove you meant it."
He sighed, then kissed the corner of my mouth in a way that made the walls of the office feel very small. "When it's official, I will put a ring on it."
That moment—his hand warm on mine—was one of the small knifes that carved away my fear.
Another came the night he opened the perfume I'd given him. He sprayed it lightly and then, almost shy, pressed the bottle to my blouse, near my heart.
"I like it on you," he said. "It fits."
"Fits what?" I asked.
"Fits us," he said, as if the idea were simple and bright.
There were more: the way he defended me in meetings, the way he smiled at me when he thought no one watched, the time he walked to a bus stop just to make sure I caught a cab after a late shift. Each little thing built a steady warmth.
At last, in a boardroom full of witnesses—employees, lawyers, and our friends—Calvin went down on one knee and offered a ring that matched the serious man he was: plain but honest, like him.
"Lucia," he said, voice soft and unshakable, "I want to build a life with you. Will you be my wife?"
I remembered the tea-scented bottle rolled across that polished table during the humiliation. I thought of my mother and the long nights. I thought of the way Calvin had arranged everything, quietly and truly.
"Yes," I said, and the room clapped. The applause felt strange and new.
Christmas would be my engagement day; my birthday and our betrothal would share a date. He said it would be our private holiday and the staff's private joke. I smiled.
In the weeks that followed, we cleaned up the mess. My mother returned to her calm self. I found a small house where the light fell kindly at noon. The tea perfume sat on my desk, a little glass bottle that smelled like a modest victory.
"Will you still tease me?" I asked one night as he tucked a blanket around my shoulders.
"Always," he promised with a grin.
The sun, when it hit his face, was not as strong as the way he looked at me. He really did shine hotter than the noon sun, but in the quiet of our kitchen, with a cup of tea and the soft scent from the bottle I once chose, I felt warm and safe.
The End
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